


we gaze up at the stars above our heads

by silentghosts



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 34 days of summer, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7381915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentghosts/pseuds/silentghosts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again, or when we meet our ends, but please just let me hold your hand.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> <br/>There's thirty-four days of what feels like an endless summer stretched between the Memorial Cup and the NHL draft. Thirty-four days days of each other. Thirty-four days left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we gaze up at the stars above our heads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idrilka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idrilka/gifts).



> To Idril,   
>  I spent far too long trying to decide which of your prompts I was going to use, but at the end of the day these two before it all went wrong are always going to own my heart. So here it is the 34 days before it all went wrong, I hope you like it. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Also happy fictional birthday KP. 
> 
>  
> 
> Title is from Skyscrapers by Daydreamers (more song recommendations at the end)

_thirty-four days_

 

There’s an arm around his shoulder and Kent can hear Marc screaming above the roar of the crowd. When Kent turns to the side, Jack’s crashing into him, a grin stretched wide across his face, and Kent wants to kiss him. His mouth is just inches away from Jack’s as they knock their helmets together, their visors bumping while the team crashes down around them, and Kent has to fight just to not press forward those last few inches. Settling instead for screaming, voice lost in the fabric of Jack’s jersey, he pushes his head into the crook of his neck, because they did it, they secured their stance as the greatest pairing that junior hockey had ever seen, and nothing could take that away from them.

 

The huddle breaks apart, the coaches joining them, everyone moving amongst teammates, trainers, exchanging back slaps and congratulations, and Kent finds himself plastered to Jack’s side. They both drift in and out of of each other's orbit, only leaving it when drawn into another hug, another congratulations, or when one of them is pulled away to do _another_ interview. Kent always finds himself drifting back to Jack's side, to nudge him with an elbow, for Jack to pull him into another hug, a litany of _we did it Kenny, we fucking did it_ echoing through his ears.

 

The next stretch of time passes almost like a dream, and as Jack lifts the Memorial Cup over his head, Kent can’t help but think _I get to have this,_ cheering when Jack lowers the cup to press his lips against it before lifting it high in the air. The crowd seems to be a sea of zimmermann and parson jerseys, and jack gets a standing ovation while he skates circles around the rink. He comes to rest in front of Kent with a fond smile on his face his eyes wide with adrenaline.

 

“How ‘bout it Kenny? You wanna take it for a spin?” He laughs, shuffling forward again, their chests almost touching. Kent reaches up, his little finger nudging against Jack’s over the rim of the cup, and for a moment he almost says _fuck it_. They did it, they won the Memorial Cup, Jack's going to get MVP, and they are going to go First and Second in the draft. He could just push forward now, press his lips to Jack's with the cup above their heads, surrounded by everyone that matters and no one would be able to take that away.

 

But then Jack steps away and Kent’s bringing the cup down towards his face, his lips touching the exact same spot Jack’s did just moments before, and for now that has to be enough. Kent glances back over his shoulder at Jack and he’s sure that how much he loves that boy must be written all over his fucking face.

  


_thirty days_

  


“Sixty-five, Sixty-six, Sixty-seven, Sixty-eight...”

 

“Shut up, Zimms, not all of us can fucking tan,” Kent groans, pushing his face harder into the grass of Jack's backyard.

 

“ _Shh_ , I’m counting! Seventy-nine, Eighty, Eighty-one...” Jack laughs, his fingers dancing across Kent's shoulder blades, mapping the path between one freckle and the next. Kent relaxes further into the grass, the warmth of the sun on his back and the soft sound of Jack's voice lulling him to sleep.

 

_twenty-seven days_

 

“ _Let’s climb a mountain,_ you said. _It will be fun_ , you said.” Kent laughs bitterly, slumping against Jack’s shoulder “Zimms, I’m dying, I’m dying and it’s all your fault, you fucker.”

 

Jack shakes his head, pushing Kent off his shoulder and continuing up the hill, leaving Kent with nothing to do but stare at the sweat soaked lines of his back, his shirt long since discarded, tucked into the waistband of his shorts.

 

“Hey, Kenny, stop stalling!” Jack shouts turning his head back over his shoulder and Kent's face still heats up, a default reaction of being caught staring. Yet, Jack smiles at him, and it reminds him that it’s alright, that it isn’t like it was this time last year, when they were still all aborted touches and half smiles, both of them stumbling around each other and trying to pretend it was nothing, when they both knew better.

 

“Seriously, Kenny, stop staring. If you beat me to the top, I’ll let you buy me ice cream,” Jack chirps, taking off toward the peak, leaving Kent struggling to fire his legs into gear.

 

Minutes later, Kent stumbles over the ridge to see Jack already sitting on the far fence, his feet dangling, wiping his face with his shirt and a smug grin on his face.

 

“Fuck you and fuck your long legs, you cheater,” Kent laughs breathlessly, coming over to stand between Jack's thighs, the sweat on their bodies making the contact feel clammy, sticking them together when Kent presses his torso forward along Jack’s.

 

“’s not my fault you can’t run,” Jack mumbles as Kent runs a series of feather light kisses up his chest, the salty taste of sweat thick on his tongue.

 

“I don’t know why I like you.” Kent grins, moving to bite along Jack's jaw.

 

“I don’t know why I like you, either,” Jack says, hooking his fingers under Kent's chin and bringing their lips together, teeth clashing as Kent struggles not to smile into the kiss. Sometimes the feeling in his chest is still too large and all encompassing for him to comprehend the sheer magnitude of how much he loves this boy.

 

Later, there will be time for arguing over who buys who ice cream as they sneak furtive glances across the tiny table at the milk bar and try not to smile when their knees bump together. Later, they will go back to being Parson and Zimmermann, the greatest pair that junior hockey has ever seen - but for now, they’re just Jack and Kent.

 

_fifteen days_

 

They’re crowded next to each other on the couch, thighs pressed together and fingers brushing, the TV playing game seven of the Stanley Cup Final, with the last dregs of their team from this year scattered around the basement. Most of them will head home soon, if they haven't already. Kent had only come back himself to clear out the rest of his stuff from his billet parents before the draft. It's not like he was going to be coming back again, not like most of the rest of the guys who roll back into Rimouski come spring. Jack will be going first, off to capture the desert of Las Vegas by storm, Kent resigning himself to second, while the rest of the team will arrive back in Rimouski as champions, and see the banner raised in the arena that had given Kent so much over the past two years. He and Jack aren’t coming back - they're going to be in Nevada and New York. A world away from the place that brought them together and from each other.

 

Tomorrow, Kent will go head home to Burlington, for a final three days with his Mom and Mikey before joining Jack in Montreal to wait for the draft, before they wait for someone else to decide their fates.

 

Looking up at the tv, the game has only two minutes to go and Kent can’t help but think how close that reality is, that this time next year that could be _him_ , that could be _Jack,_ playing for the greatest prize that hockey has to offer.

 

Sometimes Kent thinks he would give all up for Jack. If someone told him today that he had to pick between winning the Stanley Cup and having Jack, Kent knows what he would choose. Kent knows that at the end of the day, there hasn’t been any competition since the first time Jack kissed him, shaky and messy in the bathroom at the back of the arena after they were knocked out of playoffs last year. That’s when Kent decided that losing was worth it, if that was what he got in return.

 

The final minutes of the game pass in a stretch of time that feels like an eternity. Kent never felt a particular connection to either team, but the Penguins are Jack’s in an entirely different way than what Kent could ever dream of. Jack grew up in those hallways, skated for the first time on that ice. Jack clenches beside him on the couch and Kent wraps his fingers around Jack’s in the dark of the basement when the clock ticks down to zero.

 

The Penguins win, and as Sidney Crosby becomes the youngest Captain to raise the Stanley Cup, Jack's fingers remained intertwined with Kent’s, a smile across his face, and Kent wishes they could stay in this moment forever.  

 

_thirteen days_

 

They say goodbye at the bus stop the next day, a hug that lasts a moment too long before Jack heads to the Airport to catch a flight to Pittsburgh and Kent takes the bus home.

 

It takes eleven hours and two changes, but Jack's been texting him since he touched down in Pittsburgh and he broke his time record in sudoko twice, which he’s not sure whether to be proud of or not.

 

When the bus finally pulls in the terminal, Kent grabs his gear, the last two years of his life fitting into two hockey bags and a backpack, before making a beeline to the side of the terminal where he can see his mom waiting. Mikey is perched on her shoulders, still wearing the Memorial Cup t-shirt that Jack had pulled over his head twenty one days ago. Kent’s chest expands to what feels like three times in size. Dropping his bags, he gathers his mom up in a hug before Mike attempts to manoeuvre himself from one set of shoulders to another and Kent moves away, pretending to drop him, only to catch him in a giggling mess and hold him tight to his chest.

 

“Hey, Ma, what's for dinner?” Kent says, awaiting the fond smile that springs up on her face at the words.

 

“Home not even five minutes and you’re already trying to get me to cook for you! How are you supposed to survive next year if you end up living alone?” she asks.

 

Kent knows it was hard on her, letting him leave home so early, that she wishes she could have just spent one more year cooking him pasta and sending him off to school with an astounding number of sandwiches. As good as the Johansen’s where, nothing ever quite comes close to be a home - though after all the time that Kent spent at Jack’s house the past summer, Jack's house felt pretty close. Or maybe it was just Jack that made wherever was feel like coming home. As she wraps him up in a hug and ruffles his hair Kent grins, it's nice to be _home_.

 

That night, after dinner, Mikey makes him reenact the Memorial Cup winning goal in his living room, the pass that he made blindly to Jack without knowing if it would find him through all the traffic, the pass that Jack caught on his tape and sent flying past the goalie like it was nothing, the pass that's going to live in the highlight reel of Kent’s dreams forever.

 

“Do you think you and Jack can do that again next year?” Mikey asks when they’re lying on the couch, Kent too exhausted from the long day of travelling to move, their mom unwilling to point out that it's a long way past Mikey’s bed time, watching them softly from across the room.

 

“I don’t know, bud, Jack and I are probably going to be playing on different teams next year,” Kent mutters, the idea of it still feeling bitter and wrong on his tongue. The reminder that this all goes away in less than two weeks, that nothing is going to be the same once their names are called is too big stomach right now, the world slowly crashing down around him in the safety of his childhood living room. “Maybe one day we can win the Stanley Cup together, wouldn’t that be neat. It might take a couple of years though, so you’ll have to wait a while.”

 

Mikey’s eyes light up at the prospect, the hopeful optimism of a child. Kent wishes he could have more of that. He and Jack have discussed it of course, in hushed tones and quiet whispers with their bare legs brushed against each other under the covers during road trips, in the dark of the bus once everyone else had fallen asleep, and on the night of the memorial cup win, both of them high of the idea of winning it all together. Their breath smelled like illegal champagne and their kisses tasted like cheap beer. The idea that as soon as possible, one of them would get out, would get traded, would go to free agency the details weren't specific; all that was, was the idea of lifting the cup together, of kissing each other, sweat-soaked and knowing that no one could bring them down. The idea that at the end of the day, it was Jack and Kent and _nothing_ could stand in their way.

 

Kent knows it might take five years, might take ten, but he wants to win it all with Jack, wants to do everything with Jack, if he can. But he doesn’t know that if at the moment it's even possible, and it almost hurts to dream of a world where it is.

 

When he finally does get to bed that night, curling up in his too small childhood bed, in a room lined with trophies from peewee, Kent pulls out his phone to text Jack, only to find a unread message. It’s blurry and he can't really make out the picture properly, but it's clear enough to make out two figures drinking from the Stanley Cup.

 

**i puromise that we ar e going to do that together one day kenny**

 

Kent sucks in a breath, knowing that Jack can’t mean that, that he’s probably drunk, and high on emotion, and that there is no way for him to promise it. They dream it and talk about it all they want - but promise it, that's too much to ask.

 

**sure things zimms, let me know the time and place and i’ll be there.**

 

Kent pauses, ready to put his phone away and finally pass out for the night.

 

**also drink some water you fuck wit. call me tomorrow.**

 

_eight days_

 

Jack can’t pick Kent up from the station when he arrives in Montreal, some miscommunicated timing thing and his shoddy memory meaning that he had accidentally booked a dentist's appointment overlapping with the time that Kent's bus arrives. Border control is hell as well, the officer looking over everyone's passports taking twice as long as he should, so by the time Kent steps out of the cab at the Zimmermann house and finds the spare key in the backyard, he’s ready to find Jack's bed and curl up in it, soaking the smell of his bed sheets, and wait for him to get home.

 

No sooner than Kent’s head hits the pillow, the sound of the front door opening echoes down the hall, and Jack is dragging him out of bed muttering apologies about his mom's friends and a book club and some peewee summer thing at the rink that his dad suggested they go to. In the end, it's not until after dark that they get any time to themselves, slinking away from the impromptu backyard gathering watching the Jays game to crowd themselves against the door of Jack's room, desperate from the six days apart.

 

“Missed you,” Jack mumbles into Kent’s collarbone, tugging at the bottom of Kent’s shirt. “Come on, I want to see you.” he whines, breaking into a jumble of french that Kent still only half knows the meaning of.

 

“Six days Zimms, six days. I promise I haven’t changed,” Kent says, breathless when Jack finally works his shirt over his head before latching down on the soft skin under Kent’s jaw that never fails to make him feel like he would be okay dying like this.  They probably shouldn’t be doing this now, not with this many people downstairs, not with the draft a week away, when they both know Kent bruises like a peach.

 

Jack finally pulls back with a final bite, his fingers coming up to trace over Kent’s shoulders, his eyes suddenly thoughtful, tracking the movement across Kent’s skin. “You’ve got new freckles,” Jack murmurs, small and quiet like it's breaking his heart in some tiny way.

 

Kent doesn’t know what to do but kiss him, the weight of even a tiny thing like the freckles on Kent’s skin hanging over them like a noose, another thing fighting to keep them apart.

 

“We could do it, you know. Together,” Kent whispers when the room is quiet, just the sound of their own laboured breaths and they fight to catch them. He’s not even really sure what he means, the cup or them. He’s not really sure what would be harder at the end of the day, either.

 

_five days_

 

It's dark outside by the time Kent pulls Jack through the front door of the Arcade, but the place is pretty much empty, even for a Monday night. Just the staff leaning against the desk and a couple of young kids attempting to defeat the whack-a-mole. Making a beeline for the air hockey, Kent rummages around his pockets for a loony, pinning Jack down with a stare across the table.

 

“Best of seven, winner takes bragging rights?”

 

“Best of seven, loser buys ice cream,” Jack laughs, leaning across the table smiling.

 

“Whatever, Zimms, it's going down,” Kent says, pushing across the remaining space between them to place a kiss to the corner of Jack's mouth before drawing away back to his side of the table, retrieving the puck as he went.

 

They play for far more than seven rounds, laughing and teasing each other as they attempt to make increasingly more complicated trick shots across the table, until Kent can feel his arms slowly growing heavy. Looking around the arcade, they’re definitely the last ones left, but it's a Monday night and the place isn’t supposed to close for another hour

 

They play a couple more rounds until both of them give in, the score and the bragging rights long since forgotten, as they walk between the game machines, holding hands out of sight of the cashier. Kent wishes it didn’t have to be like this, that they didn’t have to hide, but at the same time he understands why they do. He just wishes he could have taken Jack to prom properly instead of going stag together, that he could have kissed him under the Memorial cup, and that they didn’t have to sneak away into bathrooms and empty cupboards if he wanted to feel like Jack was his.

 

“Hey,” Jack whispers, snapping Kent out of his thought process with a squeeze to his hand. When Kent looks at him, he's grinning, his spare hand pointing to the back corner of the room where a photo booth is nestled in between a pinball machine and the back wall.

 

“A photo booth?”

 

“Yeah, a photo booth, Kenny.” Jack laughs, dragging him towards it and closing the curtain behind them.

 

When they finally leave the booth, Kent's lips are swollen and Jack has the beginnings of a bruise blooming low on his neck, only half-hidden by the collar of his t-shirt.

 

“So, how do we look?” Kent asks, standing up on his tiptoes to loop his arms around Jack's neck, trying to sneak a peek at the strip that Jack pulls out of the machine.

 

“I don’t know, you look pretty dumb, Kenny,” Jack says, shaking Kent off and turning to put his back against the machine, angling the photos so they can both see. The first one is relatively plain, just Jack smiling at the camera and Kent doing his best effort to pull a dumb face. In the second, Jack is ruffling Kent's hair while he tries to squirm away, or closer, Kent can't remember, it already feels like a lifetime ago - but Jack's got a dumb smile on his face and it's the most relaxed Kent has seen him since they lifted the cup.

 

They’re kissing in the third. Kent remembers biting down on Jack’s lower lip to the sound of the shutter going off.

 

The last one makes Kent's breath catch in his throat. He doesn’t remember the shutter going off, but looking at the photos it's not surprising. They look like they’re in their own little bubble. Foreheads pressed together, both of them smiling like the other is the only thing in the world worth living for.

 

“I don’t know, I kind of like the last one,” Kent says, resting his head against Jack's shoulder eyes still focused on the photo.

 

“Hah, yeah. It’s nice.”

 

_one day_

 

Jack has an arm wrapped around his shoulder and they’re crowded against the side of the elevator, their bodies touching at every angle. Jack’s breath smells like cheap beer and minibar alcohol and Kent still wants to kiss him, but then again Kent wants to kiss him pretty much always.

 

“Come back to my room,” Jack says. They pull apart as the doors open, Kent’s hand still trapped in the back pocket of Jack's jeans. They probably shouldn’t - the draft’s tomorrow and the media person is supposed to be in at nine and then Kent has breakfast with his Mom and Mikey at ten, but Jack's fingers are wrapped around his and his room is right there and at the end of the day, what can go _wrong_ _really._

 

_draft day_

 

Kent doesn’t know what to do when they call his name. His eyes feel red-rimmed and he’s sure his fingers are still bleeding from where he gnawed around his cuticles this morning. Someone pushes him up in the direction of the stage and he plasters a smile on his face because this should’ve been Jack, this should've been Jack and _Jack’s_ _not here._ They take a picture on the stage and Kent stands there in an Aces jersey that barely feels like his and it’s everything he has ever dreamed of, but he would give it all up, _everything,_ just to still be sitting in those stands watching Jack stand here instead.

 

There’s an arm around his shoulder as he’s lead backstage, what’s left of his nails digging into his palms and for a second, it feels like thirty-four days ago.

  
But when Kent turns to the side, Jack’s not there.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A small jukebox of the songs I listened to while writing this. 
> 
>  
> 
> Skyscraper//Daydreamers, Young Blood//The Naked and the Famous, Xo//Nightly, The Girl//City and Colour, We Might Be Dead By Tomorrow//SOKO


End file.
